


Birds of Maine

by Ryomou



Category: IT - Stephen King, The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-09 06:09:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20990123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryomou/pseuds/Ryomou
Summary: When he presents his hand, Stan doesn’t know what he’s looking at. Whatever they are, they seem perfectly innocent nestled in Boris’s palm, two tiny little paper squares stamped with a red smiley face.“Will change your life,” Boris swears. “I’ve done it many times.”orBoris and Stan drop acid.





	Birds of Maine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beatles_and_Bellarke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatles_and_Bellarke/gifts), [porcia_catonis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/porcia_catonis/gifts), [SpicyWolfsbane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicyWolfsbane/gifts), [Evanaissante](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evanaissante/gifts).

> Inspired by the beautiful postcards & hummingbirds series created by Beatles_and_Bellarke, Evanaissante, porcia_catonis, and SpicyWolfsbane. (Don't forget their Storis archive sputnikolibri on tumblr)   
Come scream about things with me @buttercupkaspbrak

Sometimes, at night, Stan likes to reflect on everything he’s unsure about in his life. There’s something about the softness of his bed and the safe cocoon of his covers that makes him feel secure enough to consider these things. God, his father’s love, what his future will be like and whether all The Losers will stay friends past college. They’re never thoughts he would dare voice out loud, because he knows how people view him—Stan the Man, Jew with the Plan, as Richie likes to say. So many people in his life think that he’s got everything figured out, but the truth is, the only thing he’s truly certain of is Boris.

Well, really, how he feels about Boris, because Boris himself is an enigma in the strangest of ways. He’s a captivating force of provocative opinions, shrouded in mystery and hidden behind a replica of his best friend’s face.

Not that Stan would ever tell Richie that he considers him his best friend—not in a million years. It’d go to his head—another thing of which Stan is sure of.

He sighs softly into his pillow, arm dangling off the edge of his bed, turning that week’s postcard over in his fingers again and again. He’s read it enough times now to remember what it says.

_‘Kolibri, come find me where we watch your birds. Saturday.’_

There are no instructions on a time to meet, but Stan assumes morning since that’s when they usually find each other when they go to the field.

His heart catches in his chest, a gentle _thu-thump_ at the thought of Boris sprawled in the grass, pale skin illuminated by the rising sun. He’s the first person he’s taken to his bird watching spot; not even The Loser’s have been there. It’s always been his secret place, passed down from his father and his father before him, like a little piece of Derry carved out just for him.

And yet, he shared this with Boris, just like he’s shared so many other things. His first failing grade (to his mother’s horror—but it was a paired presentation, and Boris has never been one to censor himself), his first drink, his first _kiss_, even if they never talk about it. Boris Pavlikovsky stomped into his life, messy hair and dark pullovers, loud laugh and reckless grin, and changed absolutely everything.

Stan’s never been happier.

* * *

“_Kolibri!_”

Boris sounds elated to see him, and Stan has to fight to keep the grin off his face.

“Come! I have something for you.”

The morning is warm, and in the air around him, Stan can hear the song of the yellow-bellied flycatcher. He takes a deep breath through his nose and holds it for a second, wanting to hold on to this moment: Boris, the woods, the birds. Then, he breathes, and makes his way across the field, mindful of any dirt and mud that might stain his shoes.

Boris is laying down, propped up by his elbows, and when Stan gets close, he sits up all the way, crossing his legs. Stan survey’s the ground next to him before deciding it’s okay to sit, and he thinks they must be quite the contrast: dirty jeans and faded t-shirt, clean khaki shorts and pressed polo.

He wouldn’t change it for anything.

“What is it?” Stan asks.

One of Boris’s sharp eyebrows quirk up mischievously.

“Adventure,” he says before digging into his pocket. When he presents his hand, Stan doesn’t know what he’s looking at. Whatever they are, they seem perfectly innocent nestled in Boris’s palm, two tiny little paper squares stamped with a red smiley face.

“Will change your life,” Boris swears. “I’ve done it many times.”

Stan’s stomach sinks like a stone.

“Drugs?” he asks. Stan’s never tried any drugs, always swore he never would, and the thought that someone wants him to fills him with dread.

“Ha!” Boris tosses his head back in a laugh. “Don’t look so scared _Kolibri_. Is safe. Promise.”

“What is it?”

“Acid.”

“_Acid?_”

Stan must look like he ate something sour, because Boris laughs again, harder this time.

“Derry,” he says, making an aborted gesture with his free hand. “The people here, so afraid of new things.”

“I don’t think it’s unreasonable to be scared of acid. Can’t that stuff make you go crazy?”

“Maybe. If you take too much. This is just tiny bit.”

“And if I don’t want to?”

Boris’s face softens and he reaches up to trace his fingertips down the back of Stan’s neck. It sends a shiver down his spine, spreading tingles all the way to his hands and the soles of his feet.

“Would never make you, _Kolibri. _Is good though. Makes you see the world in a new way. Just wanted to share that with you.”

Stan chews on the inside of his cheek until the sharp tang of blood fills his mouth, and he’s horrified to realize he’s actually considering it. Boris doesn’t press him for an answer, just watches him with dark eyes and a small grin.

“How long does it last?” he finally asks.

Boris shrugs.

“Depends. Can be few hours, though, sometimes longer.”

“And that’s why we’re all the way out here?”

“Thought this would be good place. Good memories for you. Best to try where you’re safe and happy.”

Stan knows he shouldn’t, but a part of him melts a little bit at Boris’s consideration.

“You’ll do it too?”

“Of course,” Boris touches the back of his neck again, bringing their foreheads together for a moment. “Together, _Kolibri.”_

His mind is racing, and his hands are sweaty, and he feels like he’s put Boris under interrogation, but he can’t seem to stop.

“If I did it…you wouldn’t tell anyone?”

“Ha! So many questions. Why so worried?”

“Boris, you won’t tell anyone, will you?”

The curve of Boris’s lips is sly, almost teasing.

“Secret is safe with me_. _Promise.”

Despite the impish look on his face, his tone sounds sincere.

Stan’s exhale is shaky.

“Okay,” he agrees.

Boris cheers and wraps Stan up in his arms, the small paper tabs still clutched in one hand.

“No need to be nervous. You’re with me, _Kolibri. _Always safe with me. Now,” he leans back and carefully extracts one of the tabs, “open your mouth.”

He demonstrates by opening his own and sticking his tongue out. He looks ridiculous, but Stan mimics the action anyway.

Boris gently places the paper on his tongue, and Stan’s surprised to find that it has no taste at all.

“And close,” Boris instructs. “Let it melt.”

Stan does, fighting off the panic from the dawning realization that there’s no going back now. He watches with rapt attention as Boris does the same thing, placing the tab on the center of his tongue before closing his mouth and smiling at him.

“How long does it take to work?” Stan asks.

“Little while,” Boris replies, laying back down into his reclined position. “Tell me about your birds while we wait.”

So, Stan does. He tells Boris all about the black-capped chickadee and the plover, the red-breasted nuthatch and the northern cardinal. He talks about how he hopes to have birds of his own someday, perhaps parakeets or finches, though, not a parrot, because they live for such a long time and he doesn’t want to take the risk of dying before his bird does, because then it would be left alone.

He’s not sure how long he talks, but Boris listens, nodding and chiming in at all the right places. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Stan sees something green, and he trails off midsentence to look at it.

“The grass is rising,” is all he says, because, well, it is. The tips of the blades are stretching out, reaching for the sky, some even breaking off before floating up like bubbles. He feels like he’s caught in a snowglobe of life ascending, and he feels such awe in his heart that he has to touch his own cheeks to make sure he’s not crying.

“See, _Kolibri? _Beautiful, yes?” Boris says, voice wrapping around Stan like a downy blanket. For a moment, he thinks he can see that too, but before he can focus on it, it’s dissipates like a puff of smoke, leaving him with the memory of the smoothest navy blue.

“Wow,” Stan breathes, and Boris’s laughter sounds like music.

The hours that pass are the most incredible and indescribable hours of his life.

Together they catch grass bubbles and roll around in dirt that feels like water, and from the branches of the trees around them, Stan swears he sees birds he’s only read about in books or seen in movies. He wants to follow them, but Boris catches him in his arms, and those arms feel like home, and Stan has the heart stopping realization that he might love Boris Pavlikovsky, who right now has eyes like the galaxy and lips like silk—because he’s kissing him. God, he’s kissing him, and he can taste every bit of his love, and it tastes like infinity and spacedust and Stan thinks this must be the answer to everything.

Love is the answer to everything.


End file.
